Butterflies
by Little Polveir
Summary: How I imagine some of the missing scenes from S6 Ep3 may have looked


"Oooh!" Shelagh thought, touching her hand to her abdomen as she put the final touch of polish to the maternity home's sign. She had not been feeling well since she had got up that morning, but had brushed it aside as worrying about the forthcoming inspection.

Neither she nor Patrick had slept well the previous night. While he had spent the night tossing and turning beside her, Shelagh had stared at the ceiling, her mind flickering, her stomach dancing wildly. Nervous dread, she had wondered, or something else. She had not needed Sister Julienne's reminder that she was nearly half way along. From the moment she discovered the miracle which had occurred inside her, she had counted every day which passed. Every day that she was carrying a child. A child she thought she could never have. The child of the man she thought she could never have. Was this how 'that' felt? The quickening, they had called it during her training. The confirmation that her child was alive and well inside her. As she had run her fingertips over her now slightly swollen abdomen, this was all she hoped for. She had then drawn her knees up slightly, and sleep eventually came to her.

"Things are definitely on the move Mrs T!" Mrs Collier chirped.

"That's good news isn't it?" Shelagh replied, moving towards her patient's bed to begin her examination.

That's when she felt it again. A sharpness radiating across her stomach and back. This time she audibly gasped, her hand flying to her stomach as the pain sent her bolt upright.

"Sorry Mrs Collier, I've got the most awful butterflies this morning, so silly."

"I thought it must just be a touch of heartburn, what with you being in the family way yourself." Mrs Collier suggested.

"You can't just come out and say it!" Mrs Evans gasped.

"Why not?" Mrs Collier replied

"Have you all been, speculating?" Shelagh asked, nervously.

"Speculating! She's been running a book," Mrs Evans replied

"Well I certainly don't approve of gambling on the premises, and yes, I am expecting a baby, and we're delighted." Shelagh beamed

"Congratulations!" Mrs Evans chimed

"It's lovely!" Mrs Collier affirmed.

Butterflies, it's only butterflies, Shelagh thought herself as she left the ward to answer the telephone. It will pass. But throughout the morning as she followed Mr Greenwood around the maternity home, treading as carefully as she dare, the butterflies did not go away. The emergency case of Baby Chen took her mind off the situation, she did what she did best, she rolled up her sleeves and gave it her all. Yet, when the excitement was over, and the ambulance was preparing to leave, she felt it again. Harder, sharper. Both hands flew protectively to where her child was lying.

"Oooh!" she gasped.

"It's fine," she kept telling herself. "Heartburn, just like Mrs Collier said. It's normal. I'm pregnant. "

Later, alone in the clinical room, suddenly Shelagh felt something. The tightest, sharpest pain she had felt so far. An unmistakable, squeeze. She gripped the sides of the clinical room bench until the pain passed, screwing her eyes shut against the pain. She panted through the contraction. She felt something down below. Something which she knew was wrong. A terrible fear struck her heart like a blade of ice. Desperate to attract neither the attention of the patients, Mr Greenwood, or Patrick, she skulked to the lavatory. She pulled the bolt across and sat for a moment. A cold sweat spread across her forehead, her hands, suddenly icy and clammy, began to shake uncontrollably. Her breathing was shallow and became increasingly laboured as the terrible realisation of what was happening to her became more and more apparent. Shelagh screwed her eyes shut, and with one shaking hand, she awkwardly lowered her knickers down to her knees. Slowly she opened her eyes, and her worst fears had been confirmed. Bright red blood covered the gusset of her cream knickers. She knew instantly. This could only mean one thing.

For a moment all she wanted to do was slump against the side of the cubical and weep. She was losing their baby. What would she say to Patrick, sat across the way, up to his eyes in a meeting which could save, or destroy his life's work? A few tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes, mingling with the beads of sweat flowing in salted channels down her cheeks. She wiped them with a wad of lavatory paper, took a deep breath and sat for a moment. She knew what she needed to do.

Cleaning herself as best she could, and placing a makeshift pad into her knickers, she left the lavatory and crept across to the reception desk. Checking that no-one was within earshot, still panting for breath, she lifted the receiver and began to dial a familiar telephone number. One she had dialled so frequently, in good times, and bad. But never before like this.

"Hello Nonnatus House. Midwife speaking" came a familiar response.

"Hello Nurse Crane," Shelagh panted, "It's Shelagh. I need to get to St Cuthbert's," she squeaked, her breathing becoming increasingly laboured. "Do you think you could give me a lift?" she begged.

"Don't worry, I'm on my way," came Phyllis' stoic, yet assured reply.

Replacing the receiver, Shelagh knew she could put this off no longer. She had to tell Patrick. Holding the side of her desk, she tried to control her breathing, when another sharp pain spread through her body, tearing it, and her hopes and dreams in two. The pain past quickly, but she knew she had lost more blood. She knocked on her husband's door.

"Come in!"

Patrick sounded far too cheerful. Her task had suddenly been made a thousand times harder. She opened the door slowly and carefully.

"Everything alright Shelagh?" Patrick began.

"Would I be able to speak with Doctor Turner, urgently, and privately?"

It was immediately apparent to Patrick that his wife was not addressing him, but the be-suited hospital inspector sat across the desk from him.

"Yes, of course."

Shelagh began to reverse out of the door. Patrick followed her.

"What's?" Patrick began, before he noticed the look of terror in his wife's eyes. Their usual sparkling topaz-blue were surrounded by strands of red, and moisture gathering in every corner.

Shelagh stared at Patrick for a moment, unable, or unwilling, she could not quite decide, to form the words she so desperately needed to say. Patrick took her hands in his. They were warm, so different to hers, so clammy and cold.

"I've, had some, cramps," Shelagh stuttered, "small this morning, but worse now, and." She turned away from her husband's gaze, not wanting to see the hurt in his eyes. The pain she had caused him. "Some bleeding," she finished. A numbness spread over Shelagh. She had no idea what to say, what to do, or even how to feel anymore. An eerie silence clung to the walls of the maternity home.

Patrick's heart had dropped several storeys. He knew as well as his wife what was happening. There was no use kidding her.

The doors swung open behind them, and Phyllis strode through the door.

"Your carriage awaits," Phyllis said, in a desperate attempt to lighten the darkness.

"What? How?" Patrick stammered.

"I telephoned Nonnatus House," Shelagh squeaked, her breathing still shallow, "Nurse Crane is taking me to St Cuthbert's."

Seeing the look on her husband's face Shelagh continued, "we are in the middle of an inspection Patrick, one of us,"

"Shelagh I am taking you," Patrick insisted, one hand tenderly holding Shelagh's, the other beating up and down, "I'm sure Nurse Crane will be willing to hold the fort," he added, his insistent hand now outstretched, begging.

"More than willing Doctor Turner," Phyllis replied.

"Thank you," Patrick replied, the worry melting slightly from his brow. His and Phyllis' eyes met, and the nurse watched the Doctor tenderly lead his wife away.


End file.
